


Where The Light Shines Most

by tarquin



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M, Sky Factory AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 07:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarquin/pseuds/tarquin
Summary: A wedding has been announced!





	Where The Light Shines Most

**Author's Note:**

> anyone want to tell me why i can only write when it's michael/gavin rpf minecraft fanfiction? anyone? free me?
> 
> anyway i couldn't stop thinking about this after The Wedding so I figured I'd get it all down, along with some worldbuilding for my Sky Factory headcanons that i've been tossing around. Hopefully it all makes sense and comes together. Happy early Mavintines!

A wedding has been announced!

It’s an inescapable event in Achievement City I. The Ender Cultists and Bloodsworn report the same prophecy, that the Solar Queen has reached out an empty hand and found a palm to fit securely in his own.

“The Dark God has worn him down, then?” Some ask. “Has he finally taken the light for his own?”

Others decry, “He’s given enough blood to The First for thousands of lives, it’s about time he gives his body over as well.”

But it is not to be.

Prophets tell of the visions they receive, of a figure surrounded by an unwavering glow, emulating it, so that nowhere they reach can be shrouded in shadow. Hands submerged in molten pools of sun, he is hard at work generating the heat and light necessary to keep the world alive. It’s not an unusual portrait seen to the loyalists of the Sun, of their Patron hard at work.

Only, something is different.

Lights, smaller than those raised by the Solar Queen, dance around his temples. They flicker and flit in circular patterns, puzzling many, but familiar to those in service of The Wanderer. Emissaries of the fae, they protect the Wandering Patron in exchange for goods from his domain. And now, it seems their service extends to the Wanderer’s Chosen as well.

Word further tells also of a band wrapped around the Solar Queen’s finger, spun silver crafted by his own hand. The Wanderer wears the matching ring on a chain around his throat, hung there with his precious chunk of diamond and his phoenix feathers.

It’s a blessed day, indeed.

 

Even without the words of mages and prophets, the world of ACI tells of the communion between its Patrons and their goings on from day to day. The Sun has risen in glorious colors as of late, skies washed lavender and pink in the early mornings and bright, vibrant reds and golds before the night. They tell of passion and a cherished time, reflecting its Patron’s own excited heart.

In the corners of Aci that praise the Wandering Patron, their everlight glow has burst into the ferocity of a mighty flame. Many claim these ghostly wisps are born of the Wanderer’s own passion, and as of late they have burned bright enough to illuminate their forests and homes for days without dimming.

Fae summoned from His own courts visit frequently, offering blessings and aid in celebration of ‘The Occasion'. And while it’s generally advised not to enter into dealings with these capricious beings, that doesn’t stop them from adorning windowsills and stairwells with blue shimmering dragon scales and seeds that grow into tree-devouring beasts. 'Gifts' from ‘friends’.

 

Some are caught off guard as word of the wedding spreads. The Solar Queen does many flirtatious dealings, and while the Wanderer is less playful in that sense, many thought his heart already sworn singularly to his Lady Firebird.

The Wanderer’s followers are less surprised. 

“They’re essential for each other,” They say, “His Light is responsible for the Wanderer’s most cherished wildfires. The Light chases so many dangerous, shadowy places, the Wanderer must follow behind to keep him safe. They would be lost without each other.”

The sentiment is echoed in The Light’s own courts. None can claim to know the capricious heart of the Solar Queen, but finding him engaged to the Wanderer is viewed as almost… inevitable.

It’s said, “Even in the days before, when they walked this land in flesh, the two were inseparable.”

  

A congratulatory voyage will be sent out to the ruined lands in observation of the event. It’s rare to venture into that part of the world, as the place was fled by most living creatures after the Ascension. But for something as momentous as this a single party is gathered and tasked to set out to the forgotten stretch of land.

Their Patrons took everything of the Deadlands when they left. All the vibrance, the energy, every ounce of life _._ Left behind was a gray world that begun to grow greener the further from the place of Ascension it went. Only undead walk there now, in the company of bone-creatures and the explosive fiends.

The troupe will have weapons at the ready the entire time, but it won’t provide the usual sense of safety. The diamond blades held by their warriors go unblessed, as does their armor, and the light they carry with them comes only from torches lit with unholy flame. 

They pack for a day and a half ‘s worth of travel, even with the use of the Allknowing’s technologies and the Dark God’s teleportation magic. Those inventions, recreations built from visions and the modicum of magic that reaches this world, sputter out and die one after another the further in they march.

When their Patrons left, they took the first world’s magic with them as well.

 

As the troupe moves forward, down an overgrown path overshadowed by long-decrepit sculptures, a question is raised. 

“So, would you have done it?”

Answers vary. 

Some say they would do anything in the pursuit of knowledge. To be offered an existence so filled with unlimited _choices_ and _skills_ and _time,_ they could not resist the calling.

There’s some who say they would bend purely due to the curiosity. To be offered a home in the nest of creation, in the place where life is spun into existence by desire, they would never look back.

Others are less interested.

“Who stands in the threshold of a one-way door and doesn’t look back? Their past was _here_ , their legacy born _here._ To abandon that in search of power… They may be gods. But they are foolhardy ones.”

Another chimes in, “Seven other souls, for eternity. Six, not counting yourself, but you’d get _real_ sick of yourself too I’d wager. Even in a place where there is no end, you either explore it with no company or the same you’ve had for a millennia. Pass.”

They continue on in contemplative silence.

“Well,” a small voice pipes up after a moment. The voice’s owner gestures to the flower garlands heaped on carts behind them, nestled beside the candles, the incense, the fireworks. “They don’t seem to be bored of each other just yet.”

 

The Deadlands are a desolate place, ungroomed by human hands for a stretch of time that nobody is quite sure of. Time has taken its toll on monuments the Patrons once carved out, devouring the dead wood of their cottages and bearing down on once smooth stone. As far as the traveling party has been told nothing comes here, nothing thrives here. That’s the point of it being the place they left behind.

Except, apparently, for chickens.

Flocks of fowl start showing up miles before they get to the heart, but the deeper in they go, the more birds appear. Not just the usual brown and white chickens either. The birds’ feathers are many colored, some earth toned and natural, some eye-catching and as unnatural as a chicken can come. They bring life with them wherever they roam it seems, as any chicken spotted usually has a patch of tall grass to circle behind, or a pile of flowers they’ve scratched out of the ground. They’re unbothered entirely by the presence of humans and go about their chicken business, clucking and pecking at the ground before and after the troupe moves through.

The home of the chickens appears to be the Deadlands’ heart. There’s a wide clearing that marks it, once an art piece, then a weapon, then a cavern. Time has worn it down further and it stands as a lake now, with no trace left of the museum that washed away beneath it.

The first thing that stands out about this place is that the water filling the lake doesn’t come from a stream or the near by sea, it comes from a waterfall. A waterfall with a source that’s so high up in the sky that it’s too bright to see. Surrounding the crashing falls are walls of smooth stone, less eroded than much of the structures they’ve seen. The walls box in the water on three sides, but much of the front has since crumbled away, freeing the water above.

And it’s inside these walls that the clucks reach a nearly cacophonous level. At least a hundred chickens, maybe more, huddle in and around the waterfall, drinking from it, splashing in it, and roosting near it. They circle around the rest of the ruins, peck at long-eroded picture frames and untouched obsidian blocks. But there’s calmness about them here, a comfortableness that seems to stem from the waterfall’s source.

It’s a strange sight to be sure. A few of the gathered take down note of this, unable to use spell magic to otherwise note the moment. They’ll take word of this strange phenomenon back to the universities of Aci proper, but the smartest among them already know they won’t get answers. The Patron who is said to care for animal husbandry is a qualm to the believers he left behind, and something as coincidentally pleasant as this like seems like a hallmark of his doing.

But they’re not here to wonder the ways of the Husbandrist. They’re here to celebrate a wedding.

 

In their previous lives the Solar Queen and Wanderer lived close enough to be neighbors, and tales say that their bond was so close that they dug a tunnel under the earth to reach each other with even greater ease. The tunnel is long caved in and buried, but they use the ground where it likely stood to assemble their things. There’s a long stretch of grass between the lake and the ruins, chickens peck and preen at small water plants that grow on the banks. It’s green and warm in the late-afternoon sun, and it makes a fine place for an altar.

Stones are plucked from the place of their old homes and arranged in a tight circle. Each stone is then decorated with a single, lit candle. Tinder, pine needles, leaves, and sprigs of incense line the inside, arranged in the way of glyphs even if that magic doesn’t reach this far. This is a gift, after all.

They offer other gifts to the circle; wheat for prosperity, flower petals in celebration of love, steel trinkets twisted in the shape of the sun and the sword, thrown in for longevity.

These won’t find the eyes of the Patron’s themselves, as their tangible connection with this world was the cost of their Ascension. But the praise of their clergy reaches them in another way, as the power of their faith is essential for that Patron’s magic. It’s a strange circular bond, and even if it’s an emotionally one-sided one, affection there runs deep.

The sunset tonight is pink that fades into magenta that fades into a deep, deep blue. The clouds drag gold from the sun and use it to brighten and accent the world above the trees. The Solar Queen is giving a show, and it is breathtaking.

Smoke starts to fill the early night sky and the air is sweet and with spices. The sun slowly sinks, and it’s descent is reflected in the rippling surface of the lake. As the sun's reflection sinks into the bowl of the earth the lake grows brighter, glowing with reflected light.

The party cheers and sings of their joy. Wine bottles pop open and the fire grows, crackling high above the ruins as celebration fills the clearing.

The bottom of the sun touches the lip of the lake and a warm breeze races through the clearing. Smoke goes spiraling into the night sky and circles around the gathered, washing over them, dancing above them. Magic has found them.

And just as the sun is about to sink beneath the sky inside the lake, the eyes of the assembled go white.

 

The gathered party is treated to a vision, maybe fifteen seconds long but simultaneously an eternity. They see a gathering of seven forms, difficult to make out at first, as though it takes the mind a moment to translate what it’s seeing into humans. But it’s them, Their Patrons, gathered together in a corner of what looks to be an endless sky.

They sit together on a carved wooden platform dressed in garments more extravagant than even their usual wear. Recognizable to the Bloodsworn is their Patron’s one true Altar close by. And beyond that, unfamiliar planets and suns dot an ever-stretching horizon.

It appears to be raining in this Beyond Realm but none seem to notice, as the Solar Queen is shining so brightly that the rain burns away before it can reach them.

On the Blood Altar stands The Wanderer, dressed in the full armor of his Fae court. Adornments telling of his many irons in the fire decorate his chest, but he’s chosen to keep the helmet off so that the wedding can have his full attention.

His hands are outstretched and he’s smiling, caught in the middle of a laugh at something said by one of the others. The Solar Queen stands opposite him, draped in gold and white fabric and jewels, joy so evident on his face that one could truthfully say he’s glowing.

Assembled nearby are the others; He of First Blood, The Dark God, The Allknowing, The Husbandrist, The Phoneix. They watch with a range of reactions but do not interfere, as a voice that comes from beyond any of them calls out. The language this benevolent voice speaks is unknown to those not from this realm, but the meaning is clear to all who hear it. It is an affirmation, congratulation, a cause to celebrate.

The gathered Patrons raise their hands to clap and cheer for the happy couple, and the Solar Queen shouts with joy, pulling his husband in close for a kiss. He holds him tight, unmoving, until The Wanderer has to dip _his_ husband just to separate them. As they pull apart, The Wanderer lifts his fingers to his lips, feeling the still-warm molten sunlight there. His face is red at the cheeks and he looks overjoyed.

 

The vision fades with the sounds of more song and a swell of light. The world around the troupe returns to one with a starry sky and filled with the clucking of chickens, and soon after that, excited and hushed discussion about what had just occurred. The dark of night has fallen and chases them into the shelter of the falls, nestled amongst sleeping hens as they take down their findings.

The troupe will sleep here tonight, and begin the journey back home tomorrow morning. They’ll take back with them tales of all they’ve seen, and return with a joyful proclamation;

“A wedding has taken place, and the time to celebrate is now!”


End file.
